


Things have learnt to walk that ought to crawl

by ArmIa, PaP



Category: Sonic the Hedgehog (IDW Comics), Sonic the Hedgehog (Video Games), Sonic the Hedgehog - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Body Horror, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Desire, Developing Relationship, Domestic, Drama & Romance, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Forgiveness, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Guilty Pleasures, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, LGBTQ Themes, Metal Gear References, Military Backstory, Morality, Multi, Original Character(s), Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Rebuilding, Redemption, Rehabilitation, Survivor Guilt, Trauma, Unhealthy Relationships, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Zombots (Sonic the Hedgehog)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:40:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26481310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArmIa/pseuds/ArmIa, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaP/pseuds/PaP
Summary: Alternate title:Tangle and Whisper drag Mimic kicking and screaming into a redemption arc, even though none of them are entirely sure he can even be redeemed in the first place.Please note that some previously published chapters of this work are currently being rewritten due to concerns felt by both creators. See author's notes for more details.
Relationships: Jewel the Beetle/Tangle the Lemur/Whisper the Wolf, Mimic the Octopus/Jewel the Beetle, Mimic the Octopus/Tangle the Lemur, Mimic the Octopus/Tangle the Lemur/Whisper the Wolf, Mimic the Octopus/Whisper the Wolf, Mimic the Octopus/Whisper the Wolf/Tangle the Lemur/Jewel the Beetle, Tangle the Lemur/Whisper the Wolf
Comments: 11
Kudos: 16





	Things have learnt to walk that ought to crawl

**Author's Note:**

> PaP and I recently had a discussion about this work, and we both reached the conclusion that it's in need of a serious overhaul. 
> 
> The two chapters that were previously posted were not only bulky and cumbersome to read, but we also agreed that Mimic's characterization is straying dangerously close to romanticisation of abuse, and that's not something either of us are angling for in any way, shape or form. 
> 
> We're going to be editing the offending chapters in the mean time, but this work is technically on hiatus until we've got what already exists of it to a state we're happy with. 
> 
> -ArmIa

The storage unit is three plates of glass, welded to the floor, wall, and ceiling of the lab. A vent in the ceiling is secured in place by heavy-duty bolts, the ventilation system not large enough to accommodate most Mobians even if they had some means of ascending straight upwards with no hand-holds to grip.

There’s no furnishings, save for a simple three-legged stool, but the wood is flimsy. He could smash it to splinters before he could hope to make a dent in the glass. Moisture can be dispensed through the artificial climate system, which can simulate anything from a localized thunderstorm to the gravity of a foreign planet, but there’s no bed or toilet facilities.

It was never meant to be a permanent solution. Tails had designed it with containment in mind, not comfort. 

_I’ll have this cell transported to the nearest prison as soon as I can._

That was days ago now.

Mimic has grown bored of trying to antagonize the kid. He became Sonic for a while, taunting him, knowing that his pleas would fall on deaf ears. His focus had been entertainment, not escape, but the little brat isn’t dumb. It only took five minutes of needling for Tails to flatly observe that Sonic has green eyes, not brown.

_Supercilious little prick._

He briefly considered taking the shape of Rouge the Bat, just to see how the kid would react to her breasts pressing up against the glass, one hand splayed against the surface while the other stroked the flat curve between her legs, his name riding over his lolling tongue on breathy moans, inviting him to join her in the confines of the test chamber, begging for him to come and touch her.

Tails probably wouldn’t have given in to temptation, but Mimic had decided not to do it just to try and provoke a reaction. Precocious or not, the little geek is only eight years old. 

Mimic isn’t a degenerate. He is a professional, and professionals have standards. Yes, he’d kill the kid in a heartbeat, given the opportunity. He’d slice through his windpipe and bleed him out, or perhaps simply crush his neck now that he doesn’t have his favorite knife to hand. A relatively quick and painless death. A good death, all things considered. 

He doesn’t have any problem with the idea of killing a kid, but the more he’d thought about teasing Tails with the body of a woman more than twice his age, it had become less and less amusing and increasingly repulsive to him. 

He’s not a degenerate. He has standards.

He watches the back of the kid’s head as he busies himself at the console, unable to see his face, but that doesn’t matter. He reads body language. The tensing of his musculature, the twitch of his twin tails. The rapid movements of his hands across the keyboard. He memorizes the inputs, waiting for anything useful. Picks out the words he types, playing a private game of hangman inside his head. One series of keystrokes draws his attention.

Z…O…M…B…O…T… 

His brow furrows slightly. That’s not even a word. 

Neither of them have spoken to each other for days now, but Tails suddenly stands up, and Mimic sees fear in his eyes. He knows that expression well. He’s seen it on other faces before. He commits this one to memory, just in case.

“I’ll be back,” Tails tells him, heading towards the door. 

Mimic frowns. Tries not to look too interested, even while he wonders what could be going on, to make the kid look so nervous. Eggman? Something else?

He grunts. “Whatever.”

The fox dignifies him with a second glance. “Don’t go anywhere.”

He looks at the kid as though he’s stupid, which would usually be a sure-fire way to piss him off.

“And just where do you think I’m going to-”

The door slams shut. A keypad beeps. A locking mechanism engages with a clunk and a faint hiss.

“You couldn’t at least have left me a deck of cards?” he asks the empty room, not even a shout.

The cell is spartan. No books. No TV. Nothing to pass the time.

Time passes on its own.

The sky darkens, then brightens again. The lights flicker on to chase the shadows away at night, then dim during the daytime. 

Tails does not return. Energy-saving bulbs illuminate his workstation as dust gathers on it.

Mimic is a soldier. He’s done hard routine before. No food, no water, no fires. Doesn’t bother him. He’s used to discomfort. Used to hunger. Tiredness. At least he can sleep. Nobody’s looking for him. Not even Eggman. He doesn’t have to be on guard. This is enemy territory he’s in, but not a hostile environment.

The containment unit is neither hot nor cold. He sleeps on the unyielding metal floor. Sometimes sits. Sometimes paces. 

He very rapidly exhausts his already limited options for things to do. It took him a day to figure out there was no way out of here from where he’s standing.

He wonders if there are cameras in this place. Maybe he could jerk off, he thinks. Afforded the privacy of an empty room even as he’s displayed like a museum exhibit with no visitors. It’d probably make him hungrier than he already is, but… 

…no. Better not. Nothing visible, but there must be some kind of surveillance system in here. He doesn’t want the kid seeing that, if he chooses to review the tapes. That’s disgusting. 

He’s an infiltrator. He can handle boredom. He can handle isolation. He doesn’t mind being alone. He’s been alone for a long time. Ever since… 

The mind inevitably drifts to dark places if it’s left unattended. 

He begins to get angry. Formulates cruel, unprofessional fantasies in his head. About what he’ll do to that kid if he ever gets out of here. He’d make time, between Whisper and her girlfriend, that little skank from Spiral Hill. He’d take his time. As long as the kid left him in here. He’d prolong his death for as many days as it took him to come back. 

He satisfies himself, if only briefly, with the thought of leaving Tails’ mutilated body for them to find. Contained, he can only hurt them in his head.

Eventually, that ceases to give him any satisfaction.

What’s taking the little snot so long? What, did he go out for groceries and get lost?

Did something happen?

He listens, and for days there’s nothing. Then he thinks he can hear noises in the distance. 

…Is he imagining it, or did someone scream?

No. There it is again. He’s not going mad. Definitely a scream. Fear. Not pain. He knows the difference. Such subtleties are things he knows well. Panic. Men, women and kids. He can differentiate. 

He recalls a man, screaming.

_Fire at will!_

He recalls a woman, screaming.

_Mimic! Whisper! We need evac!_

He recalls a kid, screaming.

_Mimic! Where are you?!_

The screams outside go quiet.

What the hell is going on out there?

He squints at the door, as though expecting an answer.

He hears a sound. Low. Mournful. A moan. Someone in pain…?

No, not pain. There’s no pain. There’s nothing. It’s just a total absence of emotion. Flat, lifeless. An unbroken note of dull noise.

He hears a snarl, like an animal. Running footsteps. Ragged breaths. Then another scream.

“NO!”

What the-?

“HELP!”

He blanches. He’s used to fighting robots. Badniks don’t scream when they’re shot or stabbed. They don’t plead for mercy. Egg Pawns will sometimes try and run, if their dumb, artificial intelligence indicates to their limited capacity for self-preservation that the odds are insurmountable, but they seldom got far with Whisper on overwatch.

He’s fantasized about making Whisper scream, in a spiteful, dispassionate sort of way. But this is the scream of someone who is terrified for their life. Begging.

“HELP ME! PLEASE! SOMEONE HELP ME!”

Something smashes into the door of the lab. Mimic jumps. A fist pounds against metal.

“HELP ME! PLEASE! HELP ME! HELP ME GOD PLEASE HELP HELP-”

Running footsteps. The low droning in the background. Silhouettes in the window.

“PLEASE! PLEASE! HELP ME! _Oh God_ -”

The silhouette goes wavy. Indistinct. The sounds of a scuffle.

“NO! NO! NO, PLEASE! DON’T! DON’T! GET AWAY FROM ME- HELP! SOMEONE HEEELLLL-”

Mimic, for the life of him, cannot work out what is happening out there. He has a few ideas, and none of them are pleasant. He stays quiet. Stock-still. Listens to the screams become a hideous gurgling sound, a rasp. Muffled by…something. 

It did not sound like a pleasant death. Messy. He would’ve made it quick. Quiet. 

Multiple footsteps. Shifting silhouettes. Like someone just got torn apart by an angry mob, but the mob is silent save for that low, almost synchronous chorus of moans. He feels a chill, and shudders involuntarily in the sterile atmosphere of the glass cube.

A slow movement outside. A head turning. A mouth dropping open. The outline of a palm slaps against the window pane with a tinkle of metal on glass. Once, twice. A groan alters pitch. Other silhouettes begin to take note. 

One of the bodies forms a fist. Hammers it into the window, which shatters noisily. More noise, drawing more dead-eyed gazes.

_What the fuck-?_

A figure heaves itself over the broken glass, topples through the frame and onto a pile of crackly, crunchy shards. Mimic grimaces, sickened, as it stands up with bits of the window embedded in its skin.

It’s a robot. Smooth metal in place of fur.

No, wait. The way it moves, it’s too… _organic_ to be a robot. Even Metal Sonic can’t emulate the drunken slouch of a living being like that. 

What _are_ they?

More of them haul themselves through the window while others beat their fists stupidly against the walls. 

_Oh, shit._

He backs away, slowly, and stumbles as the stool topples over. Shit. His back is against the wall. The things are pouring in like sand through the aperture of an hourglass, ants invading an unattended picnic blanket. They look like people, but...wrong. All smooth metal and sharp teeth and claws and dead eyes that look at him without seeing, open mouths groaning, a sick parody of life, their moans unending, too soulless to be sensual. 

They reach the glass, palming stupidly at it. A few of them bump into it head-first, not seeing it. They only see him. The impacts leave wet, glimmering impacts on the glass. Thick, like paint. Like liquid metal.

His eyes scan for an exit. Oh, shit. Shit. The door. The door-! 

…no. No, the door will hold. The door is the only thing keeping them away from him. That and the glass. The thought comforts him just a little. He sneers as their gaping mouths and expressionless faces. A few of them look a little frustrated, unable to comprehend what they cannot see. He smirks, safe behind inch-thick transparency. 

_Idiots. Can’t figure out how to crack open the shell to get at the meat, can you?_

He’s safe, it seems, for the time being. But he has no way out.

He watches them jostle each other, jaws hanging slack, bodies slouching and limbs rigid, and wonders, again: what the hell are they?

A word surfaces in his mind. 

Z…O…M…B…O…T… 

_Zombot_.

A portmanteau? _Zombie…_ _robot…?_

He grimaces. No. That’s stupid. Puerile. Something a child would come up with. He refuses to dignify the thought with any further consideration. 

One of them decides to drag its claws down the glass, scraping half-inch trenches into the surface. The sound is horrendous, and Mimic winces. It does it again, and a few more start to follow suit. 

“Stop that!” 

They pay him no heed, only encouraged further by his reaction. They react to sound and movement. Signs of life. These are predators- not very intelligent ones, it seems, but he is prey to them. 

Mimic swallows, his throat tight, his beak clenched. Half a dozen sets of scrabbling claws scribble lines over one another, like a wild, frenetic game of tic-tac-toe as he endeavors to make himself as still and small as possible.

 _Okay,_ he tells himself, as his heart drums a tattoo against his chest. _Stay calm. You’re a professional. You’re a soldier. Be rational about this. The do-gooders clearly know about this. They know what’s going on. They even have a name for it. They’ll come back. They’ll send someone._

The shamblers- not a terribly elegant name, but it’s a damn sight better than _zombot_ and the best his brain can come up with on short notice- continue to thresh against the glass, slapping it with their palms and pounding with their fists. Their claws draw lines that shriek over their dull, tinny moaning. They barge and shove each other in their eagerness to get to him, shiny bodies forming a glistening, undulating wall as they fill the room like water in a bucket. In their single-mindedness, they are blind to everything else- even each other. Some of them are even trying to chew their way in, faces warped into hideous caricatures by the weight of the ones behind them. Their claws and teeth are spikes, wickedly sharp points that stand out from smooth, monochrome bodies. Even the metal skin is losing its luster, dull and lifeless.

One loses its footing, and is trampled by its fellows as they surge forward to occupy the place where it stood. Its body warps like plasticine as heavy feet land on it, squashing it like a wad of freshly-chewed gum, but it does not make any moans that are distinct from the ones around it. It doesn’t even seem to realize its torso has been pressed almost flat, arms still swiping wildly at the glass with a mangled arm as though it means to pull itself towards him. 

Mimic feels his gorge rise and clamps a hand over his beak, fearing for a moment that he might throw up. He’s used to fighting Badniks. He’s even fairly comfortable with the idea of killing people, but these things aren't even people. They're unlike anything he’s ever seen before, Badnik or otherwise.

Did Eggman do this? What the hell happened to them?

He swallows, tasting bile. _It_ _doesn’t matter. I’m safe in here_. _I’m safe._ _They can’t get to me. They can’t touch me._

He tries to ignore the scratches in the glass. Silvery fingerprints dribble sluggishly like raindrops down a car window.

_Someone will come for me. They’ll send someone. The kid, he’ll send someone. Sonic or one of his little do-gooder friends._

Another one trips, falls. Its snout smashes into the glass, its neck bending at an impossible angle. Its mouth hangs open in insipid surprise. It gazes upside-down at him from between the thronging bodies of its fellows, making no attempt to right itself. Still reaching for him, unable to stand even if it wanted to. 

It stays there for days, and never once takes its eyes off of him. 

He experiments, pacing from one side of the unit to the other. The crowd follows. He flattens himself against the back of the unit and lets the color of the metal bulkhead bleed into his skin. Still, they reach for him. 

He focuses, taking in every eerie, nauseating detail of their bodies, even though looking at them for too long makes him stomach churn. Everything about them is so acutely offensive to the eye that he’s certain they must have been engineered that way, for only Eggman could be capable of such depravity. He can’t remember the last time he took a form that made his skin crawl, even when he was pretending to be the fat man himself.

He makes his skin shiny, his eyes glowing a dull red as he slouches, letting his jaw hang slack. He is horrifyingly convincing as he emulates the groans from outside, but the creatures only react when he presses against the glass.

The movement sends them into a frenzy. The tide lurches, limbs and faces thudding into the clear surface, which squeaks as the grinding masses smear viscous metallic ichor over it. He staggers backward in surprise, almost tripping over the stool, and kicks it over with a snarl of frustration that only seems to encourage them further. They cannot be misled or misdirected in the same way that people can, because they’re no longer people. Too dumb to fool. 

_Alright, calm down. Look for a way out of here. You’ve escaped prisons before._

He inspects the corners of the unit, trying to decelerate the thudding rhythm of his heart to a more sensible pace. The kid’s a professional too. Knows his trade. Did a good job with the welding. Mimic is fit and strong, but not strong enough to make any meaningful dent in thick safety glass or sheet metal. The wooden stool is useless as a bludgeon or anything else. The vent is securely fixed to the ceiling, and all his attempts to wrench it free just reinforce what he already knew.

The realization that they can’t break the glass is becoming increasingly less reassuring.

_I have to get out of here._

The fallen creature’s tongue hangs out of its mouth like a slab of dead fish, sliding languidly over the glass. Its drool has a silvery sheen, thick and sticky as though it’s been drinking soda. Above it, balled fists pound out the arrhythmic frustration of the infected, denied the quarry they can see but not touch.

The infected do not sleep, and neither does Mimic. The sun sets, then rises. Sets again, then rises again. 

_Where the hell is that stupid kid and his do-gooder friends? Where’s Whisper and her dopey little goddamn girlfriend?!_

Heavy blows punctuate the moans, unceasing. There are no screams from outside. No cries for help. Sometimes, he thinks he hears the report of distant gunfire, the booming of artillery. The sounds of a warzone.

Whether real or imagined, it’s still all in his head.

Mimic huddles in one corner of the unit, hugging his knees to his bare chest. The wall of the containment unit feels cold against his back. He is naked, though not to the eye of an outside observer. He stopped wearing clothes a long time ago. His shape-shifting abilities let him emulate clothing, and it’s quicker to just fashion clothes from his own body than it is to change every time he takes a new form. 

Some of the infected leave, discouraged by his silence and stillness, slouching away to investigate some new quarry, staggering for the broken windows and tumbling through them like they’ve forgotten how doors work. Inevitably, the ones that leave are replaced. Many remain where they are, pinned in place by the ones behind them. The crowd heaves at the slightest movement, limbs and faces and torsos squelching horrifically against the glass.

Mimic looks for Whisper or any of her stupid little friends among the faces of the infected. He doesn’t see anyone he recognizes, and doesn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

 _They can’t do this to me. They can’t just leave me trapped in here like some kind of exhibit at that hick town’s stupid museum._

The sun sets again. A few hours later, the lights fizzle out. 

Mimic stays very quiet, and very still. He’s good at doing that. He slows his breathing, but the infected know he’s in here. They don’t need to eat, sleep, or even breathe. Squashed into the room like sardines in a can, there is no room to breathe, and the incessant noise makes it impossible to sleep. They hunger only for that which they cannot have; greedy children jostling for the best view of a tempting treat, a confection in the window of a bakery.

Eventually, he realizes nobody is coming for him. Realization does not bring acceptance. Not at first.

 _Those bastards. They can’t just leave me in here._ _They can’t._

Metal claws scrape against glass. He cringes, bunching his trailing tentacles in his fists and pulling them against the sides of his head like chin-straps. 

_It’s inhumane._

Even in the darkness, there is no respite from the shrieking glass and moaning mouths. Can they smell him? Do they sense his body heat? Are they just so single-minded in their stupidity that they lack the capacity to think of anything else?

The fruitless assault continues as the world outside ends. Panic and confusion spread like wildfire in the early stages of the crisis. In mere weeks, the flames have been extinguished by the oozing tide of the infection, passed by something as innocent as a brush of skin against skin. A mother hugging her terrified child. A helping hand offered to a trapped stranger. A soldier dragging a wounded comrade to safety. 

Mimic is afforded no such clemency. His world is a sealed box, the cruel safety of solitary confinement. Nobody can touch him in here.

After about a week (he guesses. It’s difficult to tell) he begins to wonder if he deserves this. 

_I’m in Hell_ , he thinks, rocking backwards and forwards in the corner of the containment unit, hugging his knees, trembling. _I’m in Hell._ Each tiny motion of his untouched body sends the infected into a frenzy of insipid frustration. _I’m in Hell._

Sinners are sent to Hell to be punished, aren’t they? Are these the wages of his sin? Has all the pain and torment he’s inflicted on others finally caught up with him, after so many years spent running?

_I’m sorry._

The infected don’t care.

_I’m sorry._

Too little, too late. 

_Whisper. Please come back. Please._

Whisper isn’t coming back.

_I’m sorry. Please. Please. I’m sorry._

The last man on Earth sits alone in a room. A chorus of grasping fists hammer on the walls.

_Please don’t leave me in here._


End file.
